


On the edge

by Shotgun_Cake



Series: Flavors of lust [3]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Edging, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Smut, not full BDSM though I don't think, well probably more than just 'undertones' uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake
Summary: “I'm really proud of you”, Andrés insists, gently patting his cheek. “You know I love you Martín. That's why I'm doing this. Foryour pleasure.Which is why I can't let you come yet. I know you understand.”~~~OR: Berlermo Edging. That's basically it.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Flavors of lust [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884799
Comments: 34
Kudos: 114





	On the edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/gifts).



> WARNING: graphic sexual content that could fall within dom/sub dynamics. The words "no" and "stop" are uttered quite a bit, and this is only acceptable with prior negotiations, explicit consent, and a safeword. Which is the case here. So not a hint of dubcon in there, just plain kink.
> 
> I already played with edging a little bit in the [wedding night smut](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25693036) I wrote for my Berlermo wedding fic. And apparently, this awoke some curiosity about what it would be like to delve further into an actual edging scenario for these two horny weirdos. 
> 
> I volunteer as tribute. Let's go!

When sex is concerned, Martín knows how to make a lasting impression. Most of his lovers adored him for it. They never said so, but they came back for seconds, didn't they? Martín can easily guess what they liked about him. How fast he gets in the mood, how well he takes it, how long he can make it last. He rarely got the praise he deserved for it, not from the kind of men he used to go after, but he _knows._ He can always sense it, in their hands, their breathing, their gaze. He might not get appreciated to his face, but he can tell that he will be _remembered._ And he prides himself with that. He knows how to please a man, knows how to pace himself to draw out his pleasure. And, most importantly, his partner's pleasure. So, when sex is concerned, Martín never had any problems. 

And then he found himself in bed with Andrés.

That’s when his struggle began.

Because, for the first time in Martín's life, drawing it out became something of a challenge. Some days, if Martín doesn't want to come from the very moment Andrés gets his hands on him, it calls for strenuous effort on his part. It doesn't taint the experience. Enhances it, really. Martín will simply look at Andrés above him, feel him inside him, and he'll lose himself in pleasure, finding it hard to make it last.

Oh, nothing dramatic. Nothing constant. But every once in a while, Andrés will do something unexpected, and Martín will feel like a teenager again, getting hard at the first gust of wind. And coming. Coming fast, coming in his pants, coming from the slightest caress. A brush of Andrés's lips along his cock, a flick of his tongue on the head, sometimes, just from his fingers, pushing and curving inside him.

Andrés loves it, of course. He must feel powerful when Martín embarrasses himself like that. When his body betrays exactly how much he wants him. 

Once, Andrés dragged him to the bedroom in the middle of the day and pressed a hand against his cock, palming him through his pants. An agonizing touch, yes, but clearly foreplay; they were just getting started. And still, when Andrés's other hand found its way into Martín's hair and scraped at his scalp, Martín couldn't stop himself from coming on the spot. 

And it got Andrés to think, didn't it? 

Because, not long after that, he tried to see how long Martín could last, how long he could stay on the brink of orgasm before he lost it. 

Andrés didn't warn him beforehand that he expected that from him. He simply waited until they were already in action – until he was fucking Martín, hard and fast – to inform him, quite casually, that he wasn't allowed to come before Andrés had. 

An order that Martín promptly _disobeyed._ Not from lack of trying, god no. He tried so hard to be good, to be patient, to comply with what was asked of him. His body simply has no control over the way it reacts to Andrés's touch, sometimes just his voice, his gaze, his scent. 

Most of the time, though, he can last long enough. When Andrés demands it, when Martín manages to focus, he can even last quite a while. He's no stranger to waiting, and that's a concept that followed him in the bedroom, it seems. 

But this. This is new. 

It was Andrés's idea, of course. 

_'How long do you think I can make you last, Martín? An hour? More than that? How long can we stretch out your pleasure? How long before you beg? Before you break?'_

When Andrés first brought it up, a few days ago, Martín was overcome with the certainty that he would fail. That he couldn't give him what he asked for, no matter how hard he tried. 

But Andrés was never one to back away from a challenge, was he? 

If anything, Martín's doubts, his weariness, made the idea even more appealing to him. A conquest. Not that Martín needed much convincing. 

If Andrés wants something, he gets it. As a rule, in life. He rarely sets his eyes on something he doesn't obtain in the end.

That includes Martín. 

To be more specific, that includes anything he may want _from him._ If Andrés wants something Martín can give, he will give it to him. In a heartbeat. And they've had a lot of fun that way. Dirty talk and handcuffs and semi-public escapades. Andrés is spontaneous and passionate, but most of all, he's creative.

Which is how Martín ended up where he is right now, sprawled out naked on their bed, wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts.

Shivering, as Andrés suddenly pushes a finger inside him, presses against his prostate once, twice, and withdraws it just as fast. Martín's strangled moan lasted longer than the pleasure, and now he's empty again, slick and gaping, his body begging to be filled.

That's the first thing Andrés did. Before he touched his cock, before he tied him to the bed, before he even finished undressing him. He dragged Martín's pants down, hurried and rough, and set out to prepare him with his fingers, to stretch him out nicely. He did that on purpose. To lead him on. So Martín would believe he was just about to get fucked within an inch of his life. And only when Martín was ready to beg for his cock inside him, did Andrés choose to reveal he actually had other plans for him today.

Martín doesn't think he's ever felt so exposed. So powerless. His cock gives another agonizing twitch, almost aching, but not quite. 

Andrés, tragically, is still fully dressed. Well, by his own standards, he isn't. His suit jacket has been discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. But he made a point of keeping his vest. As though that's of any help to Martín's state. As though Andrés in a suit looks any less like the man Martín needs inside him. 

Andrés hasn't touched him in what feels like hours – probably just a few minutes – and somehow, Martín has been enjoying the experience. For the most part. He didn't ask for this, but he was curious. Because Andrés wants it. Because Andrés wants _him._ He can do this. Andrés believes he can, so he will. 

Now, if Andrés would just stop trying to make him talk...

“Tell me Martín. How badly do you need to come, really?”

“Fuck off. You know how badly.”

Martín is just starting to get frustrated, but there is no point in begging right now. Not enough time has passed for Andrés to let him off the hook, they both know it. So he’s saving the begging for when he truly needs it. 

For when he's _desperate._

Which, all things considered, might come soon enough. But Martín is not desperate just yet. Slightly annoyed, perhaps. Longing for Andrés's touch. 

“Yes, you're right. I _do_ know how badly. But that's not why I asked”, Andrés insists, coming to sit on the bed next to Martín's head. “I asked, because I want to hear it. And you're going to tell me.”

Martín takes a deep breath in but when he speaks again his voice is shakier than he expected.

“I need to come, Andrés.”

“No.”

He can't say he's surprised. Not by the word, not by the way Andrés is smiling down at him. Of course he's enjoying this. 

“You're lying”, Andrés eventually says, a hand softly caressing his hair. “You don't _need_ to come. You want to. That's not the same. Look at you. You can still speak. I bet you could still solve equations right now.”

Andrés leans in, nuzzling Martín's jaw as he whispers against his skin.

“You're being impatient, _querido._ You're being greedy. But no, you're not ready yet. Not even close.”

And all of a sudden, Andrés's lips are on his neck, kissing, mouthing at his skin deliciously. No doubt, giving him yet another hickey. Martín lets his eyes flutter shut, moaning in delight when Andrés starts biting into his sensitive flesh. His wrists are aching from how hard he pulls at the ropes that tie him to the headboard. He doesn't even want to touch himself. He just has this urge to caress Andrés's hair whenever he feels his lips against his neck. A habit he took. Something he cannot do right now.

“Don't squirm so much”, Andrés mumbles against his skin. “You'll get rope burns on your wrists.”

Martín complies. He doesn't move his arms. He doesn't move anything. He just takes deep breaths and focuses on the sensations in his neck, on Andrés's hand slowly sliding across his chest. Martín barely shivers when nails scrape against his ribs, only lets out a soft whine when teasing fingers brush over a nipple. 

Andrés hums into his skin and pulls away, meeting his eyes. There's a satisfied grin on his lips, and Martín wants to kiss it off his beautiful face.

“You're quiet”, he says, and it's not a reproach, but he does sound surprised.

Both of his hands find Martín's shoulders, firmly holding him against the mattress, and he leans in for a kiss. Martín sighs at the soft brush of lips, so jarringly innocent, no teeth, no tongue, and yet such an experience. It's almost like his whole body receives that kiss, and he accepts it like a gift, weak and pliant under the gentle touch. 

He doesn't whine when Andrés breaks the kiss, and Martín knows by the look on his face that he's pleased by his attitude. His stillness, his near-silence. 

His compliance.

“You're being patient. I'm proud of you.” 

Martín's hands clench into fists above his head. He isn't sure why.

“You know what that means”, Andrés adds, his fingers dancing over Martín's stomach. “It means you earned a reward.”

And all of a sudden there's a hand around Martín's cock. Firm strokes, slow and efficient, that make his breath catch in his throat. He lets his head fall back into the pillow, mouth agape, as waves of pleasure course through his body

Martín fights the urge to thrust his hips, to chase after Andrés's tight grip. This is almost too intense, and yet he needs more, just a little more. 

He yelps in surprise when Andrés wraps his other hand around his throat, when he lets his fingers dig into the bruised flesh. It burns ever so slightly. Martín wants to purr. 

“This one is quite something… That shade on your skin, Martín, it's gorgeous. I wonder... Does it hurt when I do _this?”_

As he asks, Andrés presses his thumb against the fresh hickey. He smiles when Martín tenses.

“Yes, it hurts, I can tell. But you like that it does. I knew you would.”

Martín's chest is heaving. He doesn't waste his breath on a reply, not when Andrés already knows exactly how he's making him feel. 

But then Andrés tightens the fist around his cock, and Martín lets out a weak grunt, panting. Lost in the sensation, even with that unnervingly slow pace.

“You're close again, aren't you? Don't lie to me Martín.”

“I– Yes. But not yet. Plea– Just keep going.”

Andrés smiles. That's the first _'please'_ Martín lets out today. Definitely not the last. How is he so close to begging already? He was patient. He was _good._

“How about now?”

Andrés rubs his thumb across the head of Martín's cock, making him groan, before abruptly picking up the pace around his member. He flicks his wrist quickly, and every stroke draws a new sound out of Martín's throat. Which was probably Andrés's goal with that traitorous move. 

The pleasure builds up, so fast, so intense, that Martín nearly screams. 

“Stop, stop, stop!” 

Andrés immediately takes his hands away, the one around his cock, and the one pressed against his throat. Martín feels the absence of his touch more acutely than last time, and he bites his lip to stop himself from actually begging. Andrés chuckles at the sight of him, at the way his hips are shaking, thrusting on instinct into the empty space above him, into nothing.

Martín shuts his eyes for a moment. He still hears the echo of his own voice. 

_Stop._

A tragic word.

Not at all what Martín wanted to say. He wanted to shout Andrés's name, and swear, and ask for more. He wanted to sink back onto the bed, feel his muscles tense in anticipation, and do nothing but scream his pleasure.

He wanted to come. 

By Martín's estimation, he's been on the brink of orgasm for over thirty minutes. And he's been tied up for close to an hour.

But he has orders. He has to say _'stop'_ whenever he’s about to come. And Martín is proud of himself, quite impressed that he actually said it. 

The urge to obey him might be even stronger than the need for his touch.

With all the _'stop'_ and the _'no'_ and the _'please don't'_ , they needed a safeword today. Because if Martín were to _actually_ need a break from his torment, he couldn't just ask Andrés to stop. Asking him to stop is all he's been doing so far, and that was exactly the point. 

Oddly enough, this is the first time they discussed a safeword. They've never needed one before. Not with how greedy Martín is for Andrés's touch. Any rough gesture is a caress to him. It's from Andrés. How could he not welcome anything he has to give? Pleasure _and_ pain. Especially pain. Pain is a token of desire. A way to say _'I want you so much, I can no longer be careful about it'._ It means Andrés is losing control, is losing himself with Martín, _inside_ Martín. It means Martín gets to see him come undone, and to be the cause of it. 

Well, Andrés is not losing control today. And neither is Martín, or at least he's not supposed to. Who knows what might happen in the next few minutes? The next time Andrés gets his hands all over him? 

Martín does know how it'll end. He knows that he will definitely come soon, probably the _moment_ he feels Andrés's cock buried inside him. If he's lucky enough to have that.

So they did get a safeword. _'Ingot',_ Martín picked, and it made Andrés smile when he told him. Neither of them is going to use it. But Martín keeps saying _'stop'_ , even though all he wants to say is _'yes'._

_Keep going, Andrés._

_Touch me._

_Fuck me._

Asking Andrés to stop touching him is the one thing Martín has to force himself to do. That he would never do on his own. But Andrés is making him say it. Not against his will, of course. Never. Martín agreed to this. Andrés looked so excited when he asked. When he offered. 

_'I think I'm going to tie you up, today. I feel like playing with you for quite a while. Will you let me?'_

The curve of his smile. The glint in his eye. 

There isn't a universe in which Martín could have said no to this. To Andrés wanting to try something with him. To Andrés wanting him.

He could have asked him to recite hours worth of calculations during sex, and Martín's only question would have been _'which theorem?'_

They actually did that, once. 

Andrés made Martín read to him from his notebook. Trajectories and equations. Formulas. 

While Martín did as he was told, Andrés slowly undressed him, caressed him, fingered him. His touch was ridiculously gentle, as though trying not to disrupt the very important words of science that were being spoken. Still, Martín was struggling to articulate. 

And then, Andrés fucked him right then and there, nice and slow, bent over his desk. Still demanding words from Martín as he snapped his hips faster and draped himself over his back.

_'What was it you were saying, Martín? Planck's constant? Tell me.'_

Gibberish to Andrés. 

But he liked being reminded of how intelligent Martín actually was, how talented in his field. He especially loved hearing how clever and composed he could sound right before he progressively rendered him a whimpering, incoherent mess. Martín was a smart guy, but even he couldn't hold a conversation with Andrés pounding into him, let alone a fucking math lecture.

Andrés held him so close, most likely basking in this power his body held over _'such a brilliant mind'_ , while he was fucking Martín's brains out.

At some point, the notebook started slipping from his shaky hands. 

The moment it fell to the floor, Andrés stopped all movement. _'Can you keep talking from memory? Or do I have to pull out so you can pick that up?'_

Martín replied something very eloquent. Such as _'don't!'_ or perhaps _'Andrés please...'_

Either way, Andrés resumed his movements, a hand grabbing Martín's hair and pulling hard. 

_'Keep talking',_ he hissed into his ear, before biting down on his earlobe. _'If you stop, Martín, I'll stop what I'm doing too.'_

As always, Martín obliged. He mumbled incoherent things. Principles and numbers. His voice was hoarse, his words a jumbled up mess.

After a while, Andrés took pity on him. Neither of them had any idea what Martín was saying at that point, anyway. _'You can stop the lecture now. Thank you Martín. I learned a lot today.'_ And at last, Andrés started fucking him like there was no tomorrow, Martín's moans impossibly louder than his whispered equations.

So Andrés has been known to ask many things of him, and it's always been Martín's greatest pleasure to humor him. To let himself be controlled, without question, without hesitation.

But that's not exactly what this is today. 

This time, Martín has _some control_. He decides when to stop. He actively fights his own pleasure. 

A harrowing task. 

It's all part of the game, he's sure. Andrés doesn't actually need Martín to tell him when to stop. He knows his body very well by now. He can probably tell from the way his breathing hitches, the way his muscles tense. He can probably tell, because of all the times he's witnessed it, because of all the ways he's pushed him over the edge.

He can probably tell, and still, he insists on Martín being the one to stop him. 

Maybe this is what will break him, in the end. Not having his orgasm delayed, his pleasure denied. Maybe it's the mind games that will do the trick. Or maybe Andrés will finish him off with a word of praise, maybe he'll say his name one too many times in that sultry voice of his, and Martín will come just like that, not a single touch on his skin. Maybe.

Jury's still out on that one.

“How are we feeling, _querido?”,_ Andrés asks, when Martín's breathing has just started to slow down. 

“Fucking great. I could do this all day”, he lies, knowing full well he will pay for that later.

It was barely a whisper. Martín doesn't have it in himself to be actually angry, or frustrated, or anything, really. He just feels every sensation in his body, sharp, biting. He feels the rope, sliding against his wrists at his every movement. He feels it, too, around his ankles, digging as he squirms. He feels the bedsheets, the mattress underneath, soft, too soft, and he feels like jumping. 

And at last he feels warmth. Firm hands, slowly caressing their way up his calves. Before Martín knows it, Andrés joins him on the bed and starts to crawl between his legs. 

And what a sight he is. 

Watching Andrés in front of him, almost _on_ him, makes Martín acutely aware of his own nakedness – of his helplessness – when Andrés is fully dressed, not a wrinkle on his vest, not a hair out of place. 

He feels strangely vulnerable. And he knows he is. He _wants_ to be.

Andrés lays a firm hand on each of his knees, prompting Martín to realize, only then, that his legs were trembling. Or maybe his whole body was. Andrés's touch is enough to calm him. Enough to keep him still, at least. Because he is _not_ calm. He's anything but. 

Andrés's eyes don't leave Martín's face as he spreads his legs further, his lips pinched in concentration, his fingers digging into his thighs. If he wasn't so fucking turned on, Martín might crumble under the intensity of that stare. He finds himself thinking, not for the first time, that he looks incredibly dangerous. An apex predator on the hunt. 

“Don't move”, Andrés commands, and it's not like Martín was planning on going anywhere anytime soon. “Don't say anything. And don't close your eyes. You're going to _look.”_

Martín isn't sure he can, but he'll agree to anything at this point. He gives a weak nod before he remembers he's not supposed to move at all, and stills completely. 

Andrés shakes his head, tutting disapprovingly, and damn if Martín doesn't feel his cock twitch at that. 

One of his hands leaves Martín's leg, caresses its way up his thigh, up his hip, and comes to rest against his abdomen. Close, so close to his cock, hard and swollen, so close, but not touching. Andrés starts tapping his fingers rhythmically, digging ever so slightly into the soft flesh of his stomach – his belly, really – and Martín would be embarrassed, would ask him not to touch him _there_ , if it weren't for the goosebumps this simple gesture is sending across his skin. 

Martín's eyes dart to Andrés's face, to the hand on his stomach, to the other palming his thigh. He isn't sure where to look, he just knows he's supposed to.

Then Andrés brings his head closer, slowly, purposely, and it takes everything inside Martín not to snap his eyes shut. Because Andrés has his face right in front of his cock, staring at it, his steady breathing caressing the burning skin. 

Neither of them says anything. 

Andrés smiles before he opens his mouth, his lips a dark pink, stretched into a perfect circle mere centimeters away from his throbbing cock. As he brings his head closer, he sticks out his tongue, and Martín could swear he senses its warmth, its wetness, radiating in spite of the distance. 

And at last, at long last, Andrés leans in. He opens his mouth wider, he dives towards the head of his cock. 

He leans back.

Martín doesn't feel anything, he just sees. He stares at Andrés, now sitting on his heels between his legs.

Not a point of contact between them.

His eyes dart to Andrés's mouth, and he fails to comprehend how aching he still is, ignored, untouched.

Then there's a laugh.

And it all makes sense. Painfully. Martín feels his own nails digging into the skin of his palms.

“You believed it, didn't you?”, Andrés taunts, a mocking smile on his face as Martín can't help but to buck his hips upwards. 

Firm hands land on his thighs again, keeping him still, and his skin burns, _burns_ , where Andrés touches him. 

“I cannot believe you fell for that”, Andrés continues, almost giddy with excitement. “You're really out of it already, aren't you?”

Martín doesn't trust his voice to say anything that isn't a scream. But Andrés doesn't seem to expect an answer anyway.

“You really think you deserve it? That I'm going to suck you off, just like that, when _so little time_ has passed?” 

In this moment, Martín hates Andrés almost as much as he loves him. Almost.

Andrés waves a hand in front of his eyes and Martín realizes his vision is blurry. He tries to blink back tears but there aren't any. He's not crying, he simply spaced out, his eyes glazed over as he stared into the distance, making sense of Andrés's words.

 _“Mi amor?_ Are you still with me?”

Their eyes meet again and weakly, very weakly, Martín smiles at him. 

“Fine.”

“Fine?”, Andrés repeats, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Fine, I'll keep waiting”, he croaks. “I'll wait until you think I deserve it.”

Andrés stares back at him with wide eyes, confused. Worried, maybe. 

Then the corner of his lips twitches, slowly rising into a lopsided grin that Martín guesses before it actually appears on his face. He's so beautiful when he smiles. Martín watches in wonder, stunned to have been the cause of it, somehow.

“My my, Martín, aren't you delightful…”, Andrés says, his soft tone in such stark contrast with the mockery of mere moments ago.

Andrés lies on his side, next to him on the bed, and buries his nose in Martín's hair. His lips brush against his ear and that's a lot.

“You're doing good, so good for me”, he whispers, letting his hand roam Martín's body again. 

Just the tips of his fingers, applying feather-light touches on his shoulder, on his arm. It's nice, and Martín can't do anything but enjoy this tender little interlude, feeling limp all over. He doesn't know where this is coming from, but he accepts it gratefully. 

He knows it won't last.

“I'm really proud of you”, Andrés insists, gently patting his cheek. “You know I love you Martín. That's why I'm doing this. For _your pleasure._ Which is why I can't let you come yet. I know you understand.”

Martín does understand. He nods slowly, and slumps back against the pillow when Andrés stands up, when he takes his hands away. Martín looks up, his gaze focused on the ceiling above him, instead of Andrés's face, instead of his own body.

When his eyes land on Andrés again, Martín catches him with a hand on his own crotch, palming himself– _adjusting_ himself through his pants. This isn't for pleasure. He needed the relief. 

This is the first time today that Martín sees him touching himself in any way. He's ignored his own needs so far, entirely dedicated to touching Martín and only him. The fact that it was enough for Andrés to be tenting in his pants like this will never cease to amaze him, to make him lightheaded and so, so grateful.

And when Martín was just getting used to the idea that this was enough – that being seen by Andrés in that way, being perceived by him, is already so much – that he doesn't also need his touch– well, it's just then that something wonderful happens to Martín.

Andrés suddenly decides to straddle him. 

One knee on each side of Martín's chest, his groin right in front of his face. The tented pants, the shape of his cock underneath. Martín can't help but stare at it. 

Andrés unbuttons his fly, just the one button, and that's enough to make Martín's breath catch in his throat. He wants to believe this.

“You're thinking about it, aren't you? You want to take me into your mouth.”

Martín nods, unable to look away. He feels his mouth watering already.

Andrés sways his hips back and forth, slowly brings them closer to his face, and Martín leans in to press his cheek against his bulge. He sighs contentedly when he feels Andrés's dick through the fabric. He enjoys the warmth, the hardness, so thankful to be allowed to feel it.

Martín knows Andrés likes that about him. How eager he gets, how shameless. There's a groan, and Andrés starts pressing his cock against his face more forcefully. 

“Do you want it more than you want to come, I wonder...”, he says, almost distractedly. “If you had to pick right now. If you had to _beg._ Which one would it be?” 

Martín himself doesn't have that answer. He wants so many things right now. 

Andrés moves his hips away and waits for Martín to look him in the eye again.

“I want to know, Martín. I'll tell you what: I will do it. _If_ you can choose. Ask to come. Or ask for my cock. And I'll give it to you.”

Martín squints at him.

“No you fucking won't. You're not gonna give me _anything_ I ask for. Even if I beg.”

Andrés cups his face with both hands and smiles.

“Smart boy.” 

He brushes their noses together and adds: “You deserve a little something.”

Before Martín can freak out about it, Andrés's lips crash against his, and he's not just kissing him, he's _taking_ from him. He takes his kiss, his tongue, he takes his whimper and his desire. Martín lets it happen. His lips, like the rest of him, were aching for his touch. 

Way too soon, Andrés ends it. 

“But you're right. I'm not fucking your mouth. I have something else in mind for you…”

Martín wants to weep with gratitude. Because it means Andrés is going to fuck him, right? 

When the thought has settled in his brain, Andrés is kneeling between his spread legs again.

He looks up at Martín's, and thankfully deems enough time has passed to touch him again. Except he doesn't. Not really. He just lifts Martín's cock, holding it with two fingers, _examining_ it. As though studying his aching member from up close will give him all the answers he's looking for. 

It's barely anything, and still the fleeting touch has Martín's toes curling and his head thrown back. 

“You're ripe, aren't you? Ready for plucking. What if I fucked you now Martín, would you want that? Or are you too far gone already? Can't you hold on for the big finish?”

Martín's face is burning, all he can do is nod vigorously. Yes. _Yes!_ He can handle it. He can keep going until Andrés fucks him. 

He feels like crying from sheer frustration. From need and anticipation, all mixed into one. His eyes have been tingling for a while. Andrés smiles when he sees him nod, but he doesn't move.

“I didn't hear an answer, Martín. Does that mean it's a 'no'?”

Asshole.

“Fuck me! Yes, I can hold on.”

“Good boy.” 

And without giving any sign that he would, Andrés dives in and takes Martín's cock into his mouth.

_“Hijo de la gran puta!”_

Martín might have shouted, but didn't tell him to stop, and so Andrés doesn't. He tightens his lips around his shaft and swallows around him, hard, before he starts moving his head. 

He's so fucking good at this. 

Martín is thankful for his tantalizing slow rhythm. This is a lot already. The tight heat of Andrés's mouth wasn't something he was ready for. He's surprised he didn't come on the spot. 

But here's the thing.

And so is Andrés. Completely _baffled._

His eyes are wide, looking up at him as he takes him in deeper. He didn't think Martín could hold back. He expected him to fail. He was _trying_ to make him fail. 

That's quite a dick move, in more ways than one. 

But Martín didn't come. And the few choice words he has in mind all die on his tongue when Andrés takes him into his throat, just like that, because he can. The pressure around his dick is insane, the way Andrés keeps bobbing his head and swallows him again every time… 

All too soon, Martín feels the pull of release again, darts of pleasure rising in the pit of his stomach.

“Stop!”

Andrés slowly drags his lips up Martín's member, but instead of letting it go entirely, he wraps a loose hand around his length and starts swirling his tongue around the head. 

And he does it so well–

“Andrés, stop!”

He's still staring at Martín, and he doesn't fucking stop. His pink, swollen lips brush against the head of his cock, wrapping around him again, sinking lower and–

“Shit, fuck, you _have_ to stop! _Please!”_

Finally, Andrés frees his cock from his delicious mouth, and Martín tries to blink back the tears he feels forming in his eyes. He was _so close._ He still is. 

Andrés didn't let him go when Martín first asked him to. He made him insist. 

He made him _beg_ for him to stop. 

And Martín did beg, of course. Andrés offered to fuck him. That won't happen if he comes now. 

Martín sinks back into the mattress. He's burning up. His whole body has become one tense muscle. A taut bow, that just might snap instead of bending like it's supposed to. 

The pressure, the tension, is weighing heavily on his skin, scorching hot, tingling all over. 

Martín bursts out laughing. 

It's hoarse and broken, and tears are now freely rolling down the sides of his face, and he laughs. He must look demented, but he shakes, and he can't look at Andrés, and he laughs.

He laughs, because he was on the verge of coming inside Andrés's mouth, and he just begged him to stop. That's perhaps the most outrageous thing Andrés ever made him do. Beg for him to deprive him of his touch. 

It's actually hilarious. Saying _'stop'_ to Andrés. Martín is sure it turns him on. It sounds like resistance. Something Martín has never shown with him.

When the frantic heaving of his chest has somewhat slowed down, Andrés undoes the knots around Martín's ankles. Then, the ones around his wrists. 

He's not sore, but thankful for the reprieve. To be allowed to stretch his tired limbs. Still, he needs to ask.

“Why?”

Andrés could definitely have fucked him like that. Martín likes to face him.

“Turn around.”

_Fuck._

That commanding tone made his cock twitch again. How fucking ironic would it be for Martín to come now. So close to getting what he wants. How tragic, if he came from Andrés's words rather than his touch.

After he complies, and positions himself on his hands and knees, Andrés grabs both of his arms and pulls them back. With the rope, he ties his wrists again, behind his back this time. Martín shivers. His movements are slow but firm. Methodical. Andrés knows exactly what he's doing, making sure Martín will be completely defenseless when he touches him. 

So he's still very much on the verge of orgasm. Any second now.

When Andrés is happy with his handiwork, he lays a hand between Martín's shoulders and slowly pushes his torso forward onto the mattress. Which leaves Martín face-first against the bedsheets, only able to brace himself with his shoulders. 

His ass propped up obscenely.

The position should be demeaning. Or maybe it is. Either way, Martín likes it. Helpless as he feels, he trusts Andrés entirely. To pleasure him. To give him, not just what he wants, but what he needs. His cock keeps throbbing as he feels Andrés's burning stare against his skin. As he feels the brush of his fingers against his wrists, where he's still holding the rope. 

Not seeing him forces him to listen. The noise of the bedsheets, soft breaths, the shift of fabric. 

Finally, he feels something. Andrés's finger, tracing patterns up and down his backside. Getting dangerously close to his slicked hole. 

Martín cannot handle it. Just one more thing standing between him and the feeling of Andrés. 

“You don't need to do that. Just fuck me. I'm ready.”

Andrés chuckles, and Martín yelps when a firm slap lands on his ass. Oh, _nice._ Andrés laid a heavy hand on him. Warmth starts spreading under his skin, a delicious tingle. 

“I know _you're_ ready, Martín. Don't be rude. You never asked if _I_ was ready. Perhaps I'm not done yet.”

Two fingers push against Martín's entrance, slide in, and he just moans into the mattress. He doesn't _need_ this, but damn if he loves it. And hates it, in equal measure. When Andrés adds a third finger and unexpectedly grabs his cock at the same time, Martín goes absolutely feral. 

“Andrés…”, he whines, and it's closer to a sob. “Andrés you have to stop…”

Having to be the one who says _'stop'_ to Andrés might be the cruelest torture of all. Crueler than the pain, than the waiting and the frustration. Crueler than the forbidden pangs of pleasure.

“I don't _have_ to do anything. Ask me nicely.”

Martín takes a deep breath, and it still feels shaky in his throat. He tries again.

“Please, Andrés, _please_ fuck me. I want your cock, I _need_ your cock. You don't know how much I need it, please...”

“Hmm...”

Andrés's fingers slide out of his body, his hand leaves his dick, and there's a silence. A stillness in the air. 

Then, a sound.

It isn't that loud, but to Martín's ears, it might as well have been a clap of thunder. 

The noise of a zipper.

Martín whimpers when he hears it, when he understands what it is, and looks back at Andrés. At his face, focused, unreadable. At the way his dress pants are dragged down his thighs, the hem of his shirt brushing against his exposed dick. At his hands, the precise movements of his fingers opening the bottle of lubricant in his hand.

When Andrés pours some on his cock and slicks himself up, he looks straight into his eyes.

“Thank you”, Martín sighs, noticing only then the tremor in his jaw.

“Don't thank me just yet.”

Martín rests his face on the mattress again, leaning on his cheek, and lets his eyes close. He thrusts his hips backwards, rolling them from side to side, waiting. He's so fucking ready.

His eyes snap open when he feels slickness between his legs. 

Not on his ass. Not anywhere near his entrance. Literally, _between his legs._ With a smirk and a steady hand, Andrés is carefully lathering his inner thighs with lubricant. 

He's not– 

No. 

_No._

This can't be happening. Not now.

“Andrés?”

“Bring your knees together for me, will you?”

“Andrés, _please!”_

There's a hand in his hair again, not pulling – not giving him anything he needs – and the soft caress clashes with the sharpness on his tone. 

“Are you going to make me ask again?”

Martín swallows back the tears and, with shaky legs, shifts on the mattress to bring his knees together. There's a faint slapping sound as his thighs stick together, the wetness between them making the skin slide in a way that is not uncomfortable. A little jarring maybe, nothing awful. 

But Martín knows what's coming, and that is simply unacceptable.

“Andrés, I'm begging you.”

“Yes. You did quite a lot of that, today, didn't you? Thank you for that. I do enjoy it when you beg.”

So that's it, then? He just wants him to beg some more? Martín can do that. He will. He's great at it.

 _“Please_ , don't do this. You can't do it like that.”

Andrés puts his hands around Martín's thighs, squeezing them together.

“That's where you're wrong, cariño. I _can_. And I'm going to.”

_“No!”_

Suddenly there's a hand around Martín's wrist, and nothing else. Andrés's thumb caresses the sensitive skin of his forearm, just below the rope. Comfort. Hesitation.

“Is that a real _'no'_ , Martín?”

There is genuine curiosity in Andrés's tone and he doesn't do anything else. He simply waits for him to answer.

Martín knows what this means. Does he actually want to stop him? He can use his safeword. He could always use it, at any point today. Martín remembers the word, tastes the shape of it on his tongue. 

He doesn't ever come close to saying it. 

After a few seconds in loaded silence, Andrés just laughs. 

“That's what I thought. So you're just being greedy, then. _Again_. Or did you forget how generous I've been with you? Did you forget how well I sucked your cock, just now? You enjoyed that, didn't you?”

Andrés tugs the rope again, twisting his arms, and Martín understands he needs to reply. 

“Yes”, he hisses. His jaw is trembling, with anger, with desire, he's not sure. “Yes, I loved it.” 

“You were about to come. And I would have let you. I would have kept you in my mouth until you came down my throat. I would even have swallowed. But I couldn't. Because of _you._ Don't you remember? _You. Stopped. Me.”_

Bastard.

“And now, I still get to fuck you, and you won't feel a single thing where you need it.”

“I hate you so fucking much Andrés I swear I–”

Andrés slides his cock between his pressed thighs and starts thrusting his hips slowly, letting him really feel it, how hard, how thick. 

Martín wants to scream at the injustice.

“You have such beautiful thighs”, Andrés groans, his breathing hot against Martín's spine. “I love touching them, squeezing them, like this. I figured I would love fucking them too. Or don't you like it anymore when I use you?”

He does. He loves that, he should be grateful. But he can't, not after all this, he can't.

“I– fuck me. Please, just fuck me.”

“But I am. I _am_ fucking you.”

“Not like that!”

“Should have been more specific.”

Andrés speeds up the pace, his hip-bones digging into the back of Martín's thighs at every thrust, and oh, how he needs that cock inside him. 

His own cock is dangling between his legs, leaking precome onto the bedsheets, and it's close to painful now. Andrés is moving above him, getting pleasure from him, and Martín can't see, can't feel. 

“Oh, this is nice.”

Hums turn into groans and Martín understands that this is it. Andrés will come between his thighs. He'll pat Martín on the back for how entertaining he's been, and tuck himself back into his pants, ready to move on with his day. Leaving him like that, tied up and rock hard, aching, begging.

“Andrés, please… I _need_ you inside me. Ask me anything. I'll do anything.”

The sound Andrés makes could have been a laugh, if he weren't so absorbed in his own pleasure.

“You'll _do anything?”,_ he repeats in his breathy voice. “Martín, you've got to know that means nothing to me. You'll do anything anyway. What more could I possibly want from you, when you never say no to me?”

Martín doesn't have a response to that. Because Andrés made a good fucking point, and because there are fresh tears, welling, burning in his eyes, streaming down his face.

Objectively speaking, intercrural sex is actually quite pleasant, if not pleasurable. 

He still gets to feel Andrés's cock, to hear the noises of his bliss, to experience his desire for him, right against his skin. On any other day, he would have jumped at the opportunity for Andrés to use him in this way. He would have loved it. Probably wouldn't even have jerked off that much, but at least, he _could have._

Today, however– After all this? This is an absolute torture. This tastes like punishment.

But Andrés is going to come, anytime now, and Martín _won't._

That's it. 

_'Thanks for trying edging with me, Martín, I had fun today. Here are your clothes, good day!'_

Martín doesn't know what he's done to deserve this. 

He buries his face into the bedsheets, actually sobbing. It's not pain. It's pure need. If he could do more than begging, he would. 

Andrés stops moving between his thighs. 

“Martín...”

When he doesn't reply, doesn't react in any way, Andrés withdraws his cock.

“Martín?”

 _“What?”,_ he croaks, at the end of his rope.

There's a hand stroking his hip.

“Nothing, just– Thank you, _mi amor._ Thank you for your patience.”

Before he can ask, there it is. Andrés's cock pushing against his entrance, sliding inside him until he can feel Andrés’s pelvis pressed against his ass. The noise Martín hears leave his own mouth. He might never have made it before. 

He's wanted this so badly, waited for it for so long, and still he wasn't ready, could never be ready for that feeling. Of being spread open and full and complete. Of feeling Andrés inside him, at last, where he belongs.

All of his nerve endings are on fire.

“Andrés!”

“I know.”

And he starts pounding into him immediately, Martín didn't need to beg, he didn't even have to ask, Andrés just knows what he needs. Hard and fast. Rough. 

The way Andrés fucks him– It's so incredibly good, heavenly, and this isn't even for Martín to come. He's being used now, and taken and owned. Andrés pulls the rope again, raising his upper body from the mattress and wrapping an arm around his chest. Martín smiles and leans his head back against Andrés's shoulder, peering at his face next to his, inhaling his scent, ever so briefly. 

There's darkness in his stare, and something heavy on his face as he looks at Martín. 

Andrés is taking his pleasure from him. As he should. And yet, Martín is close, so close to the end. The relief is immeasurable, Andrés's eyes on him, a blessing and a curse.

He won't last. 

Neither of them will.

Andrés's hand slides down his chest, his stomach, and when it wraps around his cock, Martín screams. He pushes back against Andrés's dick inside him, one last attempt to feel more of him, to bring him as close as he feels.

Of course, Andrés understands. He pounds into him, harder than ever, and tightens his fingers around him. His hand is so fast on his cock, his frenzied movements betraying more desire and more pleasure than Martín would have thought. It's frantic between them, electric.

To be the one to have put Andrés in that state...

Martín wants to sob again. Or perhaps he never stopped.

There are his teeth scraping at his ear, a delightful thing, and with a few words, Andrés sets him free.

“One last order, Martín. I want you to look at me when you come.”

Martín barely has time to turn his head towards him before climax strikes him, shaking his body, tensing his muscles and coursing through him like a wave, like lightning, like the fire that has been consuming him. His cock twitches as he comes in Andrés's hand, and Martín doesn't take his eyes away from his face.

Only a few seconds have passed when Andrés suddenly stills his movements and follows him over the edge. His cock is throbbing inside Martín, and his orgasm has them both shivering, lips parted with the sounds of their pleasure.

The heavy breathing Martín feels against his skin and the arm looped around his chest ground him to the moment and, he's sure, are the only things stopping him from collapsing face-first onto the bed. 

That, and Andrés still holding the rope around his wrists. 

If this instant weren't so blissful, so _important_ , Martín might just pass out with a smile on his face. 

He hears a laugh when he slumps backs heavily against Andrés's chest, suddenly so soft, boneless. 

Andrés carefully pulls out and pushes him forward on his stomach. Gently this time, with no urgency. Martín couldn't care less about the wet spot he's lying into, about how sweaty, how _dirty_ they both are. He knows Andrés doesn't really mind, anyway. 

He hums contentedly when Andrés sets out to untie him. It's insane how the mere brush of his fingers against his wrists still sends warmth through the skin Andrés touches.

When he's done with his task, Martín turns around on his side and Andrés is soon lying next to him, facing him. He's finally naked, somehow, and Martín wonders how much time has passed. 

Both of Andrés's hands come to cup his face and they don't even speak, they don't need to. Martín isn't even sure he can.

The first thing he does with his newly freed arms is put a hand over Andrés's, where it's resting on his own cheek. 

Andrés smiles first, and he mirrors him weakly.

Martín loves it when he does that. When things shift between them, when he's done playing with him.

When lust gives way to love.

Not that love wasn't present, before that. It's always there. In every word. In every touch. Andrés didn't lie, he did that _for Martín._ For himself too, for the thrill that comes with that sort of control. But it was about _his_ pleasure, pleasure denied and given, pleasure controlled and, at last, allowed.

“I knew you could do this”, Andrés whispers, and he almost looks like he means it. 

Which is saying quite a lot, considering what a shameless lie that was.

“Really?”, Martín rasps, too tired to really call him out like he deserves to be. “Because it sounded to me like you wanted me to fail.”

Andrés chuckles and brings Martín's hand to his lips, like the incurable romantic that he is. 

“I didn't want you to fail, no, but I did want you to be challenged”, Andrés explains, like it's obvious. “I want you to challenge me too. And you did. You should have seen yourself, Martín. The look on your face when you were denied. That light in your eyes, that _defiance._ How you twisted your mouth just so. How prettily you cried for me.” 

He closes his eyes, a frown of focus on his face. 

“No. I can't picture it anymore”, he sighs, looking so disappointed. “I guess I'll just have to make it happen again, then. I'll have to draw it too. To paint you like this, one day.”

Andrés says it so casually, like the mere suggestion doesn't make him tingle all over with how desired he feels. How cherished. 

Martín stays quiet until Andrés starts tracing patterns across the skin of his neck. He likes the way it almost burns, softly, gently. He only tenses a little when Andrés presses against what is probably the biggest bruise.

“I feel bad, sometimes, when I mark you like this.”

“It doesn't really hurt.”

“That's not the reason, no. I feel bad, because I keep you all to myself. I see you, with these stunning colors around your neck, and it's like a signature on a painting. One that will never be displayed in any museum.”

Martín has to laugh so he doesn't get choked up again. Andrés ignores him.

“Painting your skin like this might be my greatest artwork yet.”

“You're so fucking pretentious.”

Andrés smiles at that. 

“I'm serious, Martín. About today too. You did wonderfully. The way you looked, the things you said. You were perfect.”

“I'm always perfect”, he jokes.

He might not actually believe it, but self-deprecating humor is good enough for now. Andrés stares at him in surprise.

“Yes”, he simply says, without a moment's hesitation. “Yes, you are.”

Martín wants to joke again, but he doesn't. He closes the distance between them to bury his face into Andrés's neck. Or perhaps to hide. Either way, it's one of his favorite things to do. To feel him close, to breathe him in. Andrés wraps his arms around him and holds him in silence.

And Martín melts against him. He always does.

If Andrés is that affectionate every single time he plays with him like he did today, perhaps they should be doing this again very soon. Not that Martín will be the one to ask for it. 

Because, obviously, he hated it. And then he didn't. There are some things worth waiting for. Martín has been a very patient man.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Any and all feedback is appreciated. I know it's not easy to comment on smut. It's not easy to write either, but I fucking enjoyed myself. Have a great day, lovely readers!
> 
> I am nice, and easy to find:  
>  **@[ _shotgun-cake_](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com)** on Tumblr  
>  **@[ _Shotgun_Cake_](https://twitter.com/Shotgun_Cake?s=09)** on Twitter


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